


Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

by SkyHighDisco



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Aftermath, Drama, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hala Madrid, Isco Disco, Real Madrid CF, Sleeping Beauty and The Beast, Sleeping Lukita, Therapy, To hell and back AU, Y nada mas, post-accident, yeah this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-13 04:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16010030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: Luka Modrić has to take afternoon naps.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ice20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice20/gifts).



> There was a particular part in Ice20's ''To Hell And Back'', a.k.a. the _Iliad_ of Football RPF fandom, and it was afternoon naps being a part of Luka's therapy. It was only briefly mentioned, as a part of the schedule, but woke something so insatiable in my fingers that the fluff needed to be typed down. Rightfully so, all I write in this fandom seems to be drama. 
> 
> If you haven't read the fic yet, it says about Luka getting into a lethal car accident and follows his journey through a dreadful recovery. It's absolutely worth the read and I recommend it in an instant. It is a bit dense in length, but it wouldn't be as good if it wasn't. Enjoy! <3

There was something almost promising to describe in this whole situation.

„Ha-ha, just you laugh", Luka grumbled when he, against his will, explained what he was required to do for his own health's sake, but the fact didn't stop the entire team from snickering behind their palms, Casemiro in particular. Mateo, the little traitor, asked which plushie should he buy him. When Luka told him to stuff it, whoever understood English laughed.

As funny at the time as it has been, once Luka fell asleep, the possibility of lingering in the communal living room, or in its mere proximity, became impossible. Not because Luka needed privacy; no one was as inconsiderate as to interrupt his peace, when it's all he hasn't had over the past year. No, it was because Luka would occupy the entire room by himself on one particular level.

Luka Modrić snored. And he snored obnoxiously, inconceivably loud.

When he first realized this, after trying in vain to read in the living room after training, Nacho made a 180° turn, wide-eyed and exited the room three minutes after entering. Marcelo marveled at the crummy magnitude of this small body and the volume those audible terrors were able to achieve. Conversely, Sergio didn't find it the least bit amusing and grouched about it big time, but earned a slap up his head from Cristiano for being senseless.

Isco was the only one who seemed to be untouched by Luka's obscene noises (maybe because he wasn't entirely quiet, either). The Real and Spain's 22 was a heavy sleeper, completely contrary to Gareth whose brain strictly valued the difference between night and day, and was disturbed by mere breathing in the room. Some afternoons the young Spaniard could be seen sprawled in his midfielder friend's proximity, catching along the _'z'_ -s. The others scolded him for using Luka's condition as an excuse to be deliberately lazy but were silenced by the fact that they would all do the same if Luka was a quiet sleeper. That, and being kept in suspense for almost a year didn't make it easier for them to not stick around.

Today couldn't be more ideal. The day started off as cloudy, and the only Welshman on the team could feel a headache squeezing at his sinuses already in the morning, so the technical prognosis wasn't needed to be sure rain was on the way. The question was only, when and for how long will it allow them to train. Thankfully, the wind was still only rising in strong gusts when they'd finished. Almost as if it waited for them to run off to the entrance, the rain followed. Now it whispered pleasant murmurs on the windows and roofs of the Real Madrid compound, in which inside Marcelo and Sergio stumbled upon the show.

Luka slept on the couch. It was originally normal, but because of Marcelo's inexplicable anxiety that he could fall off, despite Luka's protests and feigned offense, Cristiano took the Brazilian's side as well, so the furniture piece was folded out to a decently royal level and Luka really couldn't complain about that.

He was scheduled for the naps four days a week, but Isco always joined him at least once, and today couldn't be a more ideal weather. He would always sneak in when he thought Luka was already sleeping, but the older midfielder couldn't be fooled. Then he'd hit the hay in one of the armchairs, or just a chair; the Spaniard didn't require much to fall asleep. One time he crashed on the floor on the other side of the coffee table opposite Luka and when he next woke up, Dani had to give him a fair massage.

So when Marcelo and Sergio came in to check on him, as they did every day, even as they didn't need to, it wasn't surprising at all to find bewilderment written across their faces.

On the couch/bed, Luka was laying on his side, head resting calmly on the pillow. His mouth was half open, producing its usual symphony of hell. The blanket covered him from waist below. Next to him, freshly dressed after a shower, Isco was facing him, although situated a bit lower so Modrić's right hand almost looked natural resting tangled in the Spaniard's messy dark hair. Isco's right arm was curled inwards to his abdomen, but the left one covered the space between them and was gingerly touching the Croat's front, slightly moving in motion with Luka's ribs. His mouth wasn't gaping like Luka's so he didn't snore as distinctly, barely loud enough to not be covered by the rain outside.

It was absolutely the most adorable, most pure sight Marcelo had seen since the birth of his children, and they needed Zidane here pronto because this image was sure to banish all his worries and edgy behavior in a blink, and it should serve as a psychological therapy.

Therefore, the Brazilian had no idea what business a frown had on Sergio's face.

„An alien combine could roar past and he wouldn't stir an eyelash", Marcelo commented, stuffing a forkful of greek salad in his mouth.

When Sergio gave him a look, his brow fell even lower. ˮWhere the fuck did an alien combine come from?"

The Brazilian shrugged. ˮWhy can't I be creative? And what's with the grumpy face? Look at them! They are the cutest thing I've ever seen."

They were whispering, minding to keep their conversation quiet enough, but distinctive at the same time to drown out the rain's hissing. Marcelo was allowed to bring the plastic bowl from the cafeteria with him, which Sese had, lookie here, frowned upon, telling him the scent would wake Luka up. When did it only become apparent to Marcelo that Ramos was being more and more absurd with each passing year?

Sergio sniffed, glower easing when he looked at the midfielder friends again. ˮI still can't stand that excruciating noise."

„Oh, boo-hoo, you big baby", if there was anything to deduce in Marcelo's voice, it was how a ridiculous sentence could sound deadpan. ˮWhere would the world end up if people paid attention to your cavils. Don't look at me like that. We can all be happy he's with us again. Remember the first few days when we had no choice but to wait to see if he'll survive at all. Revive what you felt then and tell me you're bothered by his snoring. Lukita can snore all he wants for all I care; he's alive and well, and I couldn't be happier with it."

Sergio pursed his lips, but didn't comment, eyes focused on the couch. After a few moments, he pulled out his phone. ˮSay no more."

„What are you doing?"

„Making sure they can't say 'no way' to anyone."

That said, he snapped a lovely picture (minding to turn the flash off), posted it on Instagram adding a sleeping and a hear-no-evil emoji for good measure, and succeeded at melting the hearts of thousands of fans within minutes.

„Pretty sure at least one of them will kill you", Marcelo said, taking another bite of the salad.

„Then it won't be Lukita. He can't even punch a punching bag."

„And we can always let Isco know that we know who dyed Zizou's favorite button-up pink." Marcelo handed his own phone to Sese. ˮWould be a shame if we had to do that."

„A real shame", Sergio nodded, snapping one on the left defender's camera. Isco shifted in his sleep some, eyelids fluttering in the midst of the dream, and Luka's fingers twitched lightly in his hair but didn't abandon their rightful place.

The door opened behind them with no knocking to announce it, and Mateo's curious head peeked in.

„Come on, you guys. We gotta hit the gym!" The young Croat's alarmed gaze instantly melted when he plainly _aww_ -ed at the offered sight.

„Shh! Be quiet!“ A forefinger flew up to Marcelo's lips.

„No need, we already have it", Sergio said when Mateo started fiddling with his phone.

„I'm serious, though. Zizou is pissed, he's asking for you."

„Right, right. We're on our way", Ramos brushed him off like their coach wasn't capable of extracting creative punishments for rebellious team members.

„But what about Isco?"

The pair kept on snoozing, even as Luka's snores were starting to get cut off and his left hand twitched several times in his REM-phase, so the gathered teammates concluded they've outstayed their welcome.

„Isco" Sergio leaned in slightly, initially in low voice, but then remembered that his fellow Spaniard could only be woken up if he was hit on the head with a metal bar, so he whisper-shouted, ˮ _Isco!_ "

„ _Shhh!_ You'll wake Lukita up!" Marcelo hissed, shaking the fork at their captain. Mateo giggled.

„Leave him be", the Croatian said. ˮHe did well on training today, so he should be fine. Now hurry. Zidane will skin us alive and then dispose our coats above Santiago Bernabeu for all Madridistas to see if we aren't there in five minutes."

With one last pointed look at his traitorous fellow compatriot from Sergio, the trio departed swiftly, Mateo closing the door as soundlessly as he could, despite the pair sleeping like slaughtered. He didn't pass the opportunity to snap a quick picture himself.

A few tranquil seconds flow by after they'd left. The rain kept pitter-pattering across the compound like a stealth nymph. Then, without any other motion, eyes remaining closed, Luka's fingers in Isco's hair grip in affectionate warning.

„This is the last time you're getting away with it."

Undisturbed by the thick-accented croaked voice above him, Isco grinned.


	2. Bonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happened and it completely messed up my initial plans. Originally, I was supposed to finish another standalone oneshot, which is hopefully going to follow soon, but instead, I've spent two days writing this. Call it a sappy prequel? Sorry about that. :'D

Rain maintained a resilient rhythm hitting the floor-to-ceiling windows of the communal room, trying to penetrate in in the same vain the trapped bugs try escaping out. It inspissated the sky grey and unrolled the clouds hanging heavily over the earth like a reachless canopy. Whatever living thing got caught in the middle of it surely had a darn difficult time. Nevertheless, the team was hopefully successful at making a break for it before it did the same thing to them. Zidane wouldn't risk any of them catching pneumonia before retirement no matter how he fancied oppressing all of them, the sadistic bastard. But then, can you blame the man for doing his job?

Luka tried to focus on breathing to steady his thoughts. They weren't getting him anywhere, and he surely didn't need them at the moment. Dull, persisting pressure of pain kept shoving against his frontal lobe, but the midfielder refused to allow it to increase. Meditation didn't necessarily require latched thumbs/forefingers and crossed feet. Dogs could meditate, provided they are shown how. The passage of thoughts, without any lingering in his attention's immediate proximity for longer than a second, helped situate a headache back on its haunches. As the time passed, the midfielder was glad to see the headaches became milder in their continuous assaults, and he almost stopped counting on the fact he would have to be facing them for the rest of his life, as was the original prognosis.

Almost.

Soft thunder rumbled across the afternoon sky, heaven's own colorless icebreaker, soothing Luka's eardrums and purifying his every inhale. The louder frequencies still made him flinch in a foregone instinct which got rooted back in childhood and refused to leave even until now. Thunder, fireworks, distant demolition — too much of it spoke the word 'war'.

Pass. Peace in his mind again, like he didn't even parse the thought in the first place, and there were once again only him, breathing and the rain.

The door to the large room clicked open with a shy squeak. The Croat's hand twitched on impulse, but other than that, he gave no sign that he was awake. Should the assessment evaluate it worthy of his time, he will do as much. It could be anyone only dropping off things, or coming to check in on schedule.

Then there was a soft rattle of a keychain being dropped onto the nearest armchair, chiming joyously upon hitting the surface. Luka recognized it as a small metal boot and now he didn't need eyes to see the intruder. He'd heard that sound enough times.

A deep sigh that followed affirmed his suspicions. Odd, how a man is capable of confirming an identity by sighs alone. There was a shuffling of clothes and another clicking sound of a watch being removed. Nothing unfamiliar from all the last times. Luka kept his thoughts in a steady flow. Another role of thunder. Inhale.

However, to his perplexity, sudden weight occupied the foot of the folded-out couch. Isco crawled over the mattress and flopped on top of the blanket Luka was covered with on his side of the bed. Through his unimpeded breathing rhythm, the Croatian could feel a distinct fresh scent of soap.

Isco exhaled again, this time in plain relief, and didn't move another muscle, body speaking exhaustion, but Luka reached out, noting Isco wasn't in the line with him; he was forearm's length away, facing the older midfielder's chest. Luka slid his fingers behind his neck to scratch him softly on the nape in wordless greeting before withdrawing.

„How was training?"

„I kept missing the net."

„That's alright. It only means you won't be able to miss it when the game comes up."

„Zizou isn't satisfied."

„When is he really?"

„You weren't there, you didn't see him. He was flat-out disappointed. Like he explicitly wanted me to see it. And it's not like I wasn't trying."

„You'll get better."

The younger midfielder made a face like he ate something sour. Unlike Luka's eyes, his were open. ˮHow am I supposed to get better if I don't get the opportunity to show that I am?"

Now it was Luka's turn to open his eyes for the first time in this peaceful hour. He frowned down at Isco's disheveled scalp, but only because the headache lunged again. While the Spaniard didn't meet his gaze, Luka knew he listened.

„How many times do I have to keep telling you? You have it in you. Everybody knows you do. You just have to find a middle."

Isco's orbs rounded up to regard the Croatian captain from under his eyelashes. Another thunder. ˮWhat are you talking about?"

„Just bear with me. I know you're impulsive. Everybody does, and you aren't fooling anyone with it, especially Zidane. We both had a discussion about it. You, me and Sergio. I'm sure you don't need a reminder." If a pointed look the Spaniard was given should evoke a gust of shame, it was only successful at finding annoyance in its way, completely ineffective in the eyes of the Croat.

„You don't need opportunities. Opportunities always come. You just need to be yourself out there, and you need to play a football as it fits the team. With other people around you. That's the only thing you are supposed to do. And believe me, you will achieve much more than even you knew you could.

Trust me. Zizou is only doing his job. Imagine him being a softie and praising us for every successful pass we made. _Barça_ would mock our teddybear game to eternity."

Isco actually scoffed at this, and the annoyance was brushed off like it wasn't even there. He supposed he should be thankful, but the Croatian undoubtedly knew that he was.

Luka rested his eyes again when the pain started to fiddle with a screwdriver on the inside of his skull once more. He wanted to ask Isco to go and fetch the meds, but no pills were of use in his case, nor will they ever be. Plus, he definitely wasn't in a mood to listen to the _"but-I-just-got-here"_ groaning.

They laid there for a while just listening to the rain, Isco fiddling with his fingers, and Luka fondly remembered one of the first times Isco stopped by for a nap. The kid actually tried to be stealthy, thinking anything can escape the Croat's notice, collapsing on the other sofa. It was a cold day and he obviously forgot your body starts to cool off after the gym. It was no surprise, then, that only a few minutes after laying down in short sleeves, he started fidgeting at the nibbling cold and continued to do so for the following while, driving the Croat nuts. So when he recognized the signs of a half-sleep, Luka dragged himself off his folded-out couch ignoring the black spots that sprung before his eyes, augmented by the persistent headache, grabbed the blanket and spread it over Isco's curled-up body, giving a light smirk when Isco visibly relaxed under the deserved warmth. Dumb boy. Luka had a surprisingly difficult time walking back to his bed from the sight.

„Does it hurt?"

Brought back to reality, Luka had to take a second before countering, "What?" It wasn't a classic 'what do you mean' what, it was a 'what' which demanded a specific explanation. 'Leg' would be an indefinite question. Leg or head. They needed their legs, that much was only obvious.

„The fact that they have never found him."

With a chilling rush of blood in and out of his skipping heart, Luka stiffened. This was by far the most private Isco has ever dived into a conversation with him, and the Croatian suddenly felt more vulnerable than ever. Of course, he knew what he was talking about, but it was the question even he was too afraid to ask himself for the entire passing year. The unspoken, forbidden question. It wasn't even discussed with his psychologist Sofia. And she as if knew exactly what subjects to keep away from.

A soft sniff was the only answer he could willingly provide, partially because of this anger buried at the pit of his stomach, partially because all of the pain was suddenly back in his bones, inwrought through all the surgeries.

When the following silence started to feel uncomfortable, Isco's mouth worked on before he could stop himself. ˮAre you in pain?"

Luka watched something far more distant than the opposite wall, before letting go of the voice that came out far more hoarse than when he first spoke. ˮEvery day."

Everything was still for a second, burdened by the hanging-in-the-air question until Isco broke down in heart-wrenching sobs, burying his face against the Croatian's chest, walls completely shattering. Luka didn't say anything, merely ran a hand through Isco's hair and left it there, letting the younger midfielder give in to emotions that have been collecting amongst all of them since the accident was first heard of. He needn't have said anything. Words were a meaningless grey fog, like the one pouring sky showered Valdebebas with. Wonderously, while he wasn't much of an emotion-concealer, Luka's eyes remained dry, along with his soul and mind like the Spaniard stole all of his.

He only felt a biting remorse for letting Isco go through this, even as what happened wasn't any of their faults. All the worries, anxiety and dread from both Real Madrid and his national team's members Luka was presented with right through what he was hearing now, and it impacted him in the consciousness harder than he would like to admit, hitting his reason with all the rejections and evasive reserve the injured player has subjected himself to, making both himself, and the rest of them suffer equally.

He started murmuring comfort, not even paying attention what he was saying; his tongue unconsciously mixed Spanish and Croatian in this incomprehensible mess, but it wasn't relevant when the frequencies alone were enough for Isco to know that Luka was actually there. He was here now. Not on the operation's desk with nonexistent consciousness, dangling on the beam scale of life and death ten months ago. He only let himself be held, feeling the hand in his hair just as clearly as he felt the heartbeat in the older midfielder's ribcage.

_Alive._

_He lived, he made it. Everything is going to be okay._

Whenever Isco finally fell asleep, he wasn't aware that he did. Exhaustion overcame him long before he'd stopped crying, but along with sleep came tremendous relief, and it paved him a peaceful road to the realm of swoon. Luka followed suit quickly, but not before planting a small apologetic kiss on the top of Isco's dark head. Even as the younger didn't even register it, Luka's chest didn't feel as heavy anymore. To him, that was enough.

Isco's face must've swelled down and the tearstains on Luka's shirt dried off by the time Marcelo and Sergio found them, because they found no trace of anything other than two peaceful sleeping beauties making horrendous sounds.


End file.
